


Swing With Me

by kirkisajerk



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Con Artists, Falling In Love, Great Depression, M/M, This Is STUPID, Work In Progress, this will probably have smut at some point oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:47:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirkisajerk/pseuds/kirkisajerk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes, an eccentric millionaire, and John Watson, a unemployed adrenaline junkie, go into the con-artist business together, well, what can you expect?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swing With Me

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic is going to be my big multichaptered project. It's a late 1920s to early 1930s AU, set in America. If there is any major historical inaccuracies, please tell me! Also, I rated this mature because eventually in the fic I want them to frickle frackle. So far it's completely SFW. 
> 
> This is the playlist I listened to while writing the first chapter, I highly recommend listening to it for full effect B)  
> http://8tracks.com/medicinalmalaya/prohibition-tunes

The depression hit the Watsons hard. But then again, who didn’t it hit?

His Mother and Father had moved from England to the good ole’ USA about ten years ago. Around 1921 or so, John didn’t bother to think up the exact date. The jobs lasted, and pretty well at that. His family never made it rich, but they were comfortably middle class, without a doubt happy. America seemed to hold countless promise. The sixteen year old John Watson managed to push through school and land himself the position of a doctor, living in Queens, New York. That was pretty nice too. It was the roaring twenties, and John had his British charm on his side. His best mate, Mike, had said that being British was swell trend. Something about it tended to attract the dames and dolls of the town. John considered himself pretty popular in his early twenties and late teens. He didn’t settle down right away, didn’t want to get trapped up in a marriage like his father had mistakenly done. No, he played his cards right, dated plenty of absolutely wonderful dolls. It was absolutely lovely for him. Women, money, and esteem all around. The American dream, right?

Everything changed, and it changed fast. They said it was a ‘stock market crash’, although John couldn’t force himself to read about it in the papers. In ‘29, the doctor found himself out of work, along with the majority of, well, everyone. It was a damn awful fix. At first, he thought he’d just get himself another job. Handsome smart bloke like himself shouldn’t have any trouble with that. Apparently, there were plenty equally handsome and smart blokes out there, all pining for the same position. He thought about joining the military, something paying and brave like that. But his father had fought in the first World War and basically forced him not to enroll. Being short on cash was apparently better than the horrors of war, even if we weren’t currently in a conflict.

John’s situation was quickly becoming desperate. A Watson wasn’t one to take charity; even breadlines seemed like asking to much. No, no, he was one to earn his keep. But the landlord kept asking for the months pay, and errands weren’t cutting it. Soon enough, he wouldn’t even be able to afford his apartment. Swell.

It was a hot summer day, the type that could make the toughest man want to melt defeatedly into the concrete. John was leaning by a stand he was running, a grocery selling a cart load or two of apples, right in the center of the italian market. The owner of the joint was a man named Angelo. Definitely italian, plump, with a good outlook on life. A bit too cheerful, John would roll his eyes. It was almost annoying the way he happily greeted all his customers, as if we weren’t all scraping by on this ridiculously unfair rat race. God, John could feel himself turning into a real killjoy, real fast.

Angelo had taken John under his wing, sensing that the younger man would need a figure of guidance, and more importantly, a source of income. On Sundays, while Angelo was at mass, John would run the grocery stand. It was a rather bland job. Tipping your hat at broads that walked down, swatting little kids away, making change of a quarter. The crowded New York streets were deathly loud, busy and frantic. Everyone was swindling, begging for lower prices, arguing and praying all that the same time. John wasn’t one for the city. If the west wasn’t in such turmoil, he’d move there in an instant.

Suddenly, a new face caught John’s attention. It emerged from the other side of the street, somewhat awkwardly maneuvering through the crowds, waiting for cars to pass by. It was a nice face, one belonging to a bloke a good five years younger than him. Curls carefully styled under his hat, although still a complete mess of a style. It was long-ish. Longer than what was typically considered proper. Borderline feminine, John decided with a furrow of his brow. The man himself was much taller than John, maybe even reaching six foot. He wore a plain outfit, no jacket, just a button down, suspenders, and trousers. Although, there was something off about the whole get up. Perhaps it was how polished it all was. Freshly cut, washed, _pressed_. No, that couldn’t be right. No one pressed there shirts now days. It was far too expensive, in fact, John hadn’t had a freshly pressed shirt since ‘28. Bloke must be loaded. Rich. The blonde found himself compulsively straightening up. Rich typically meant stupid. He’d be sure to make a few extra cents if this stranger came his way.

To his surprise, the brunette did. He walked over, in a forcefully nonchalant fashion, hands tucked in his pocket and _whistling_. He looked over the apples for a minute, resulting in an eyebrow raise from John.

“You realise it’s typically traditional to _buy_ the products you’re drooling over.” John chuckled, taking an apple in hand. He threw it in the air, catching it with his other hand easily. The rich man didn’t laugh, rather, he continued examining the apples, not bothering to address John properly.

“I suppose I’m not traditional then. Nor am I drooling. Never liked fruit.” The man drawled and John blinked in fascination. His voice was- posh. Not even an attempt to use an American accent, as John had been forcing for the last eight years. His grin widened. It wasn’t to common to meet a Brit, even in this immigrant melting pot of a city.

“Oi, you’re English? That’s quite the coincidence.” John smiled, placing the apple back in the cart, hoping to meet a new friend. A rich new friend, at that. “The name’s John. John Watson.”

“Sherlock Holmes, at yours.” The man finally met John’s gaze, one hand outstretched in a painfully professional manner. “Do you hate it?” He asked abruptly, tilting his head to the side in false confusion, as if he already knew the answer, “Having a boring, pitiful job. Being a doctor was far more interesting, I’m sure. But still, something wasn’t quite there. The lack of danger. Do you miss the rush?”

John’s mouth was left agape. Confused and mindlessly angry, he thrusted out a pointed finger, jabbing it at the taller man. “Look here, greaseball, I don’t know who you are, or how you know that, but you better not be spying on me. Are you a house-peeper or something?” He accused, his expression hard and unwavering.

 _Sherlock laughed_.

Out right, cracked up, staggering back for a moment- trying to orientate himself from the tears rimming his eyes. He pulled a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped his face, still snickering for a moment. It didn’t sit well with John. “What’s so funny? You’re a nut?” He almost yelled, cheeks beginning to redden. What had he done? Was he really so unintimidating that his threats could make a man burst out in giggles? And to think, he wanted to be a military man as a kid.

“Oh, God, I love my little party tricks.” Sherlock sighed contentedly, hands resting on his hands on his hips slightly, and eyes bright. “No, I’m not a detective, psychic or spy. I’m simply extremely observant. Look, I’ll make it up to you. Can I buy you a cigarette?”

John frowned, still utterly confused. “No, I don’t smoke. But you can buy an apple off of me.” He spoke at last, gesturing to his products.

“Do you drink?”

“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock blatantly rolled his eyes, shifting his weight to his right. “I mean, if I were to invite you to my favorite speakeasy, would you attend, or would you hypothetically bring the _coppers_?”

John bit his lip. Drinking was illegal in America, one of the reasons why he preferred England, in fact. He really couldn’t afford spending time in jail or paying a fee; but then again, at least they fed you in the slammer. Besides, this Sherlock fellow, he was rich. Unless involved with the mafia- which was starting to seem like a possibility- he wouldn’t put himself in dangerous situations. Rich people don’t like to go to the big house anymore than he would. Sighing, John nodded.

“Fine. I don’t have much to lose, do I?”

_____________________

It might as well have been in a basement, John noted with a heavy sigh, and the adjustment of his hat. Speakeasies, illegal businesses, those sort of things weren’t typically up the man’s alley. But here he was, sneaking down in an unknown level of the local corner store. It was a bit shocking that no one had busted the place already. Hot new music was blaring, he could hear that before he was halfway down the stairs, although it was muffled through heavy, cheaply placed insolation. Pungent cigarette smoke wafted up to the thin rickety stairway. John had to control himself from coughing at it, the stench was unbearable.

Now down in the god forsaken place, he realized just how loud the music was. It was a lively mix, jazz, blues, a band playing away. They made quite an effort making the place look presentable. White table cloths, banners, high society candles and lamps were all placed carefully. On the floor woman served drinks, waiters fussed over bills, and the unmistakable Mafia resided in the front row of tables. It took a bit of effort to pick Sherlock out of the jumbled mix, but that unmistakable hair cut was a dead giveaway. The brunette sat alone at a table set for two, smoking a cigarette and leaning back on his wooden chair. Unlike earlier in the day, Sherlock was now wearing a full suit, completed with a rather expensive double breasted jacket, tailored a bit too small. His hat was off, placed upside-down on his plate, and John got a decent look at his face. The man had sharp features, piercing cheekbones, and full lips, something John would typically find attractive on a bird. The blonde pushed through the crowds, nodding at the host and winking at a particularly voluptuous waitress.

“Is there a reason why you’re so opposed to eating?” John commented and sat down. It was true, every other table was already served. Sherlock’s bread remained untouched, samples pushed to the side. This morning as well, he didn’t even buy an apple, which he could surely afford. Sherlock shrugged, removing the hat from his plate and placing it on his lap.

“Don’t have the interest. But that’s highly irrelevant, Mr Watson.” He sighed, pressing his lips together in thought. They sat in silence for a moment, John running his fingers absentmindedly on the rim of his glass.

“What exactly do you mean by that? You’re acting as if there’s some particular reason why I’m here. Like there’s some sort of business to this all. I was under the impression you were just buying me a drink.” The blond clasped his hands together for a moment in thought, while Sherlock sighed even louder. He rolled his eyes, impatient, just wishing John would _just keep up_. But John wasn’t the quickest at this sort of thing, so Sherlock closed his eyes in an exasperated fashion.

“Of course I’m here to buy you a drink. I’m also here to ask you the same question I asked you when we met this morning. _Do you miss the rush?_ ”

Another silence.

“You’re part of the Mafia? Trying to recruit me?”

“Of course I don’t work for the Mafia. I’m British, remember?”

“I need a drink.”

The request for a beverage was answered quite quickly, and the same attractive waitress brought out a gin and tonic in no time. John took a sip. He had never really cared for the taste, most people don’t, but it worked. The whole room had a strange steam to it, John observed. Something that enticed and brought about rash, uneducated choices. It was the type of place that fights broke out in, ladies taken home from, and alcohol poisoning acquired. Perhaps it was the rash, desperately rash environment that caused John Watson to make his choice. It was the time, the place, to let the secret spill, to open up in. And Sherlock was the one to confide to.

“Yes, I do miss the rush, if you must know.” John finally spoke, his eyes not exactly meeting Sherlocks. He could see the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch up in approval.

Sherlock licked his lips lightly, hands clasping together and leaning forward, dangerously close. John could almost feel his hot breath. “And you need money, don’t you? Have to find a way to get buy.” John gulped, inching back in intimidation.

“What are you suggesting?” He breathed, mouth dry.

“Well, have you ever heard of...grifters?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for proofreading!!  
> http://theandrewtaco.tumblr.com
> 
> Your comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3


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